


Take Me Down

by CloudedAbandon



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Bondage and Discipline, Developing Relationship, Dom/sub, M/M, beginning of relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-03-27
Updated: 2012-03-27
Packaged: 2017-11-02 14:35:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/370069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CloudedAbandon/pseuds/CloudedAbandon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Matthew wants a D/s relationship with Arthur. Arthur hopes to not mess this up. It is a lot harder than he expected. But he will be damned before he fails Matthew again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Shine a light through an open door

**Author's Note:**

> Hetalia Kink Meme Fill

Matthew does not look at him. He does not bother to even cover himself with the thin cotton sheet for modesty’s sake. He stares at his toes, fingers knotted together nervously.

Red-pink kiss marks mar his pale skin and there’s drying semen on his stomach and Arthur was not expecting to find his former colony well-fucked and covered in another man’s ejaculate that Sunday afternoon and he had only come in because the door was unlocked and how can Matthew keep his door unlocked?

And the unnamed man is already gone and Arthur had thought to surprise his oft-forgotten boy with some pastries he picked after directing his taxi to take him from the airport to the best bakery in town because Matthew couldn’t start his day without something sweet.

The box is now sitting, forgotten, on the kitchen counter and soon Kumajirou will paw at it and help himself to a muffin.

“Stand up.” Arthur says, quietly, green eyes hard. 

Matthew hesitates, body stiff. But soon he untangles himself, long legs draping over the side of the bed before he stands and Arthur feels a slow roll of cold fury in his stomach when the blond winces and the sunlight bounces off the still wet, still glistening trail of cum on the back of Matthew’s thighs.

“I can see…that I made a mistake.” The Englishman continues, voice even. 

Matthew’s face, from that afternoon tea so long ago, comes back to his mind. The hopeful, almost pleading look in those vibrant violent eyes when Matthew placed the thick leather collar on the table. It had looked so foreign on the lacy tablecloth.  
“I need you to do this for me.” Matthew’s voice had trembled. “I don’t trust anyone else. Alfred wouldn’t understand. Francis…would just hurt me again.”

Arthur had stared, teacup poised midair. He had been flattered, in a perverse sense. He, for the briefest moment, had felt a flicker of power, heady under his skin. How long had it been since he had truly possessed someone?

“Do you know what you’re asking of me?” He had said, voice hushed. Matthew had nodded, his tea cold. 

And when had someone ever begged him to be taken? Who had asked for his protection and not thrown it back in his face?

And now it was Matthew. His most loyal. But not the one who loved him most in the world.

And though it was tempting, he had turned his head away and told Matthew that he would not do it.

“But I want you.” Matthew had whispered, pale fingers curling around the supple leather. “It has to be you.”

But Arthur had not wavered.

And now he wavers and makes his decision.

He needs to take responsibility. 

“I did not raise a slut, Matthew.” Arthur reprimands, voice still soft as he motioned for Matthew to step forward. He approaches the boy, circles him once, and then again, stopping directly behind him. “I did not raise you to be so careless.” Deftly, he dragged his fingers through the mess on Matthew’s inner thighs before drifting up towards his still stretched hole, frowning. “How many times?”

“Twice.”

“Why?”

Matthew shudders. “Because he wanted me.”

And he is unprepared for the strike to his left buttock. 

Ignoring the blond’s pained yelp, Arthur walked away. Yes. His decision was made. “Get yourself cleaned up and come downstairs for breakfast.” He looks over his shoulder before passing through the doorframe. “And he didn’t want you. He wanted a good fuck.” He adds coldly, not enjoying the other’s flinch but accepting it.

He is not doing this to humiliate his boy. 

He is doing it because he loves Matthew and the other needs to realize it.

And maybe then he can fix the damage that’s been done (by him, by Francis, by Alfred and the world) to the other’s fragile self-confidence.


	2. you play the game but you gotta cut

When Matthew enters the kitchen, Arthur already has tea on the table and the rest of the pastries. Matthew shuffles up to the table and Arthur gives him a cursory look before nodding approvingly and ushering the blond into a chair.

But Matthew resists.

“Arthur, you’re the guest.” He frets, looking around the kitchen. “There are some eggs in the fridge and—“

“Sit down, Matthew.” Arthur interrupts, fingertips pressing lightly into the other’s wrist.

Matthew gives him a wide-eyed look and sits down, curling in on himself before a warning tap at his shoulder blade has him sitting up straight. Arthur places a cup of steaming tea in front of him, a storm of milk and three spoonfuls of sugar, along with some sticky bun. Arthur, himself, has only a cup of tea and when Matthew asks if he wants anything, the older nation says that if he did want something, he would get it.

And he says it in such a way that Matthew blushes and busies himself with another bite and there’s a smear of stickiness on his lips and crumbs at the corner and so Arthur deliberately picks up a napkin, licks it, and wipes away the mess with a firm hand.

“Arthur—“ Matthew catches himself and swallows roughly.

“Yes?” Comes the calm reply. Arthur takes a small sip of his tea, one eyebrow quirked. “What is it?”

But Matthew shakes his head

“If you have something to say, love, say it. If it were not important, you would not have said anything. You hardly speak unnecessarily.” Arthur says, voice not unkind.

“Why are you doing this?” The northern nation asks, eyes fluttering shut when Arthur wipes away some more crumbs from the corner of his mouth and from the curve of his lower lip. 

“Because you asked.” He replies. “And I see now that you need it.” His expression softens. “I’ve been neglecting my responsibility to you, love.”

“I’m not a burden, Arthur.” Matthew says coldly. “Don’t do this because of some stupid sense of responsibility. I’m a grown nation.”

“And yet you’re still such a child.” Arthur pushes in. His fingers curl against the curve of Matthew’s jaw. “And it is not about Canada. It is about Matthew and how much I, not England, care about Matthew.” He smiles gently. 

Matthew gives him such a stunned look that Arthur almost flinches. 

Did Matthew really not expect much of him? How difficult was it for him to come to Arthur that day?

Arthur coughs awkwardly and pulls away. “Now, if we are to do this, you must give me a safe word.”

“Passchendaele.” Matthew answers automatically. 

Arthur ignores the bitter taste in his mouth. He said, “And we must set some rules.” At Matthew’s nod, he continued, “You must be completely honest with me. If I ask how you are, you will not brush it off. You will not downplay anything.” His lips quirked into an affectionate grin. “You do that, you know. You never say anything—never complain, never cry. But I can see it in your eyes.”

“When you see me.” Matthew stated quietly. “When.” 

Arthur would not waste time on apologies. He was in the wrong, true. 

He also would not bother saying that Matthew hadn’t tried very hard either, on a personal level.

This was new territory for both of them.

On the bright side, perhaps now Arthur could dote a little without Matthew assuming it was because he shared Alfred’s face.


	3. but the ocean is wider than I first guessed

There isn’t anything really sexual about it. Not at in the beginning.

Matthew has always been the more responsible, cautious one. He plans out his day in the morning over mug of coffee and half an apple, goes to work, meets with his Prime Minister, and attends meetings and comes home in the evening. Then he feeds Kumajirou and cooks dinner and then goes over some more paperwork while watching the news just to fill the silence.

Then he switches to sports, usually an old hockey game, and puts away his work because he can never quite focus when faced with his one of his oldest loves.

Arthur doesn’t interfere with any aspect of his day. He meets Matthew’s Prime Minister and then leaves when Matthew is meeting some ministers to walk around Ottawa.

He is so proud, oh so proud, as he stands on Parliament hill and stares out at the bustling city which, in less than half a blink ago, was a ramshackle little town. And he can’t help but think he did something right, somewhere, because Matthew has come so far.

But, apparently behind the visage of strong nation, lays a landscape of cracks held together tenuous and desperate. The ice in Matthew’s eyes shield the divides and disagreements brought on by being Alfred’s brother, Arthur’s colony/son/brother/who knows now, and Francis’s brother-turned-nothing-turned something. 

And in the evening, Matthew offers to show Arthur around and, politely, steers the older nation away from the stove, instead handing him some lettuce and tomatoes and tells him to make a salad.

Arthur watches as Matthew cooks, violet eyes focused on the fish as it cooks in the pan. The heat from the stove causes sweat to bead at his temple and his hair to curl and his cheeks to pink. He moves with unconscious confidence and Arthur wishes the boy would behave as such at a world meeting because Matthew glows when he’s among his politicians and he is so lovely when he smiles.

After dinner, Arthur works on his paperwork while Matthew does his. He doesn’t have many days off and he should actually head back earlier because he hasn’t been feeling too well but no one has screamed for him yet so he can be a little lenient.

But once Matthew turns on hockey, Arthur breaks the silence between them.

“Come here.” He pats the space next to him on the couch.

Matthew, who was curled up in an armchair with a budget proposal in his lap, gives him a quizzical look. But Arthur only says, “Don’t make me say it again.”

And it is not threatening, but Matthew knows already not to disobey. He uncurls himself from the chair and walks over, sitting next to Arthur on the worn couch and stiffly looks at the television just in time to see Luongo deflect a puck.

The game goes on and eventually Matthew relaxes and when he does, Arthur slowly eases the boy against him. And Matthew, after another moment, becomes more pliant and seems to melt against Arthur, face pressed into his chest, held snug under Arthur’s arm.

The tip of Matthew’s nose presses into the wool of Arthur’s sweater, taking in the smell of bitter tea and salt. And he breathes out softly.

Arthur strokes his hip, gently, and smiles into golden waves. “There’s a good lad.”

And he can feel Matthew smile, small, probably just a slight tug of his lips, but it is enough.

It is enough until it is not enough.

And then it’s not enough for either of them.


	4. can't be scared when it goes down

It was a slight mistake on Matthew’s part. Arthur had asked what was wrong when the blond came home, eyes bruised and anger in the deep-set curve of his mouth. Matthew had shaken his head stiffly and stormed up the stairs, slammed the door, and refused to come out for the rest of the day.

His white bear had just mumbled something about having a bad day and lumbered up the stairs to where it just stayed outside Matthew’s door.

Arthur had sighed and shrugged. 

He had a flight to catch. So he left a note and went to the airport.

But that didn’t mean Matthew wouldn’t be punished.

If Matthew wanted brush off his concern as though he wasn’t even there, then perhaps Matthew would need to know how it felt.

Arthur was not the best man and he had made mistakes. He had so many colonies over the years that he couldn’t keep track of them all after a certain point.

Which is why he tended to revert to ‘boy’ or ‘lad’ for his male colonies.

Unfortunately for Matthew, who tended to blend so easily and was so quiet, he had often forgotten his name briefly. It didn’t help that Matthew was in his own house for so long that Arthur would forget that the boy wasn’t independent. 

But he had never called Matthew by another name.

It was petty. And that was the mistake he made.

Because when he called Matthew ‘Alfred’ and Francis swooped in to correct him and Arthur then ignored him in favor of arguing with the Frenchman, Matthew’s expression fell for the briefest moment, hurt and anger warring in his bright eyes, before he replaced it with a laugh and tight grin, brushing off the slight.

And now Arthur sat in a dark corner of the bar, watching, anger roiling in his stomach, more than a little jealous, as Matthew sat with that bloody wino, giving him a coquettish grin. The implications of his half-mast eyes and the way he played with the rim of his glass were not lost on Francis, who did not even bother to hide the hunger in his gaze.

And Matthew—that beautiful, wide-eyed brat—is clever, too. Arthur often forgets that Francis raised Matthew first and Matthew knows the games just as well as the rest of the world, but instead, plays like Alfred.

And that means he plays by his own rules.

Arthur needed a new approach.

And that approach comes with downing his gin and sliding out of the booth, storming across the smoky bar and to Matthew. He looks pointedly at Francis and works a finger into the collar of Matthew’s pressed white shirt and hooks it around the soft leather that adorns the North American’s pale neck and pulls it up, revealing it.

Matthew gives him a scowl. Francis looks like he swallowed something rotten.

Arthur, then, tugged the collar lightly and when Matthew sat still, pulled. And the boy comes stumbling out of his seat and catches himself before sullenly following Arthur out of the bar as the Englishman continues to lead him by his collar.

But instead of hailing a taxi, Arthur hauls him over to the alleyway and pushes him against the wall and steps back.

“I don’t think you quite understand.” He says, tersely. “You gave yourself to me. Therefore, you are <i>mine.</i>” And the words bring with them an undertone of possession and Arthur hears Matthew’s breath catch. “You can be angry at me. You can yell at me until your face turns blue.” And he stepped forward, green eyes sparking. His fingers curled around the collar, knuckles brushing against Matthew’s throat and his pulse beating against his touch. “But remember you are <i>mine</i>.”

It is only then that Arthur realizes that Matthew is flushed, eyes glistening and lips slightly parted. Pressing closer, Matthew turns his face away, ashamed, and Arthur realizes that the blond is hard against his thigh.

“Perhaps this is the only way I can make you understand.” He muses, half under his breath, as he pressed curious fingertips to the bulge in Matthew’s trousers. 

Matthew panics, squirming in Arthur’s hold and glancing nervously towards the entrance of the alley. But the other ignores him, sliding his hand down until his palm is pressed firmly against the covered erection, fingers sliding back behind it to press teasingly. Matthew bit back a moan, head falling back, revealing his neck.

Arthur pressed his lips against the newly offered skin, dragging his teeth down taut muscle, tasting the other’s pulse in his mouth. He sucked, hard. He continued to palm Matthew through his trousers.

Matthew whimpered.

“Anyone could walk by.” The younger nation whispered, voice tripping over a moan and ending on a whine. 

“Yes, and?” Arthur replied dismissively, a little sharp, still angry. “You were practically throwing yourself at Francis’s feet in front of the entire world.”

Prussia’s leering face and Alfred’s horrified expression had signaled to him that something was happening at the bar and made him look over. And it was then he had excused himself to a dark corner to stew in his anger and jealousy. 

“If you need so badly to be seen…then shouldn’t you be happy?” He added, darkly, tugging at the collar. “Isn’t this what you wanted?” He shoved his thigh between Matthew’s legs and pushed firmly against his erection.

And it was worse because he knew Matthew needed to trust him enough to not take it to heart during a punishment and he knew that Matthew needed to vocalize his anger and hurt and all those terrible emotions instead of compartmentalizing them, picking them apart, deciding he was wrong, and boxing them away until the next time Alfred caught him on a bad day. 

“I was upset.” Matthew gritted out, gasping when Arthur kissed the hollow of his throat, just below his Adam’s apple, wetly. “At you.”

Arthur had figured as much. “And why didn’t you just tell me?” He pressed closer. Matthew trembled beneath him.

“B-because…” The blond trailed off feebly, eyes still flickering towards the empty street. “…I was too upset. And I didn’t think.” He admitted, softly. 

“You were being punished, love. Its not punishment if you enjoy it.”

“But did you have to do that?” Matthew cried out, hands coming up to push at Arthur’s chest. Still no safe word. “The rest of the world might confuse me for Alfred, but you—<i>you</i>— have no excuse—“ He shook his head, stopping, slumping against Arthur.

Arthur cradled the boy in his arms, holding him tightly to his heart. “I know.” He said, hushed, carding fingers through Matthew’s curls. “And it was the wrong. But you need to tell me that instead of jumping into bed with that derelict. You know better. You also know to tell me when you need something or when you want something or when I’m going too far.”

Matthew buried his face into the curve of Arthur’s neck, the bite of metal and glass against his skin, and Arthur prayed he wouldn’t start crying. He also prayed that he remembered the safe word.

“Is there something you want to say?” Arthur asked carefully, thinking that it wouldn’t hurt to prompt Matthew.

“I don’t want to do anything in this alley.” Came the sniffled response. “And I want to go home.”

And Arthur will have to wait and see if Matthew becomes more forward with him but right now the blond is pliant and a little humbled and he curls against Arthur in the taxi and Arthur pets his hair and murmurs soft endearments.

And in the house, Arthur helps Matthew get ready for bed, removing his glasses and undressing him and helping him slide into warm flannel pants before getting into bed with him. Matthew immediately presses into his warmth and Arthur kisses him on his upturned lips, once, twice and then once more, fingers cradling Matthew’s cheek.

He paused when Matthew sighed in contentment and tangled his fingers in the buttons of Arthur’s button down shirt. 

“Is this something you need?” He asked, gently prying Matthew’s fingers away from their task of unbuttoning his shirt. 

“Can’t we talk about it in the morning?” Matthew sighed.

Arthur gave him a stern look. “We can, but then we will just sleep for now.”

Matthew pinched his lips together before acquiescing, curling against Arthur’s chest and falling asleep quickly.


End file.
